


tomorrow is not yesterday

by shadowdance



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Pre-Canon, Spoilers, takes place a few years before link wakes up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/pseuds/shadowdance
Summary: One hundred years is a long time.





	tomorrow is not yesterday

i _._

By the time Sidon reaches Zora’s Domain, most have retired off to bed. It’s silent, except for the steady hum of rain, and the hallways are bare. There are no children kicking at the rivers of water running down the steps, no elderly grumbling about the war and losing Mipha.

(They usually fall silent when Sidon approaches, anyways, but the remnants of their whispers remain. Sidon knows what they were talking about, and it never pleases him.)

“You were at Inogo Bridge all day,” Muzu sneers, when Sidon reaches the throne room. Sidon smiles sheepishly at him, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How can you tell? Because I’m _wet_?”

Muzu sniffs, not catching the joke. “ _No_ ,” he spits out. “You smell like river.”

Sidon rolls his eyes and looks at his father. King Dorephan is staring in the distance, tapping his fingers listlessly against the throne. His tapping does not drown out the rain, which has softened to a drizzle at night. But Sidon can still hear the splashing.

“I don’t understand why you’re waiting at the river for…a _Hylian_ ,” Muzu says, the word _Hylian_ leaving his mouth like a poison. He even makes a face, for emphasis. It’s not that different from the expressions Sidon sees on the Elders. “ _They_ won’t help.”

Sidon sighs. They’ve had this argument too many times. “They could.” He would push it, but his whole body is sore today. He’s so, so tired.

“I don’t see how-”

“Muzu,” Dorephan interrupts. His voice is gentle but firm, and Muzu stops abruptly, as he always does when Dorephan speaks. But Muzu’s body language is stiff, though. He shoots a glare at Sidon.

“I’m just saying,” he mutters contemptuously.

If Sidon was not so tired, he would say, _it’s been raining for a hundred years._ He would say, _I am sick of this rain, it is threatening us and we need it gone._ He would say, _electricity is the only way to stop this weather and you know how vulnerable Zorans are to it._ He would say, _Mipha—_

But then he would stop there. He’s good at forcing out her name and not falling to pieces, but Sidon doesn’t like to push it.

“Go to sleep, Sidon,” his father says gently. “It’s been a long day.”

Sidon bows his head and strides out of the throne room. He looks at the pond where he sleeps, knowing the waves would fold themselves around his body, knowing that he could shut his eyes and dream, and then he walks away and sits on the steps near Mipha’s statue.

The rain is still coming down, fat drops sloshing on his shoulders. A layer of water slithers past Sidon, down the steps and to the floor. He can’t remember the last time the palace was dry. The clouds only swell with more rain and threaten to release it. Sidon tilts his head up and stares at his sister’s statue, where she stands serenely, frozen in time.

_Give me advice, Mipha. How would you solve this?_

She would know, Sidon thinks, but the statue doesn’t talk. It never does. He sits on the staircase, hand propped on his chin, wishing the storms would stop and take a break, leave their domain. He closes his eyes.

The rain comes down harder.

* * *

 

ii.

 

“Where were you all day?”

Saki has a worried look in her eye, the sharp kind that Teba can’t avoid. He sits down on his mat, avoiding her gaze—the worse thing about Saki is that she can draw out anything from him.

“Nowhere,” he says gruffly. “Wasn’t important.”

Saki sighs. “Were you—”

“Dad! Dad!” Tulin comes barreling out of nowhere, a lump of feathers landing on Teba’s chest. Teba blinks, and when he reopens his eyes, Tulin fills his vision, beaming at him. “Did you take down Divine Beast Medoh? Can we go to the Flight Range now?”

Saki’s eyes bore into his back, begging him to turn around. Teba sags his shoulders and picks up Tulin. “Not now, Tulin. Sorry. Why don’t you go to bed?” He scoops Tulin up and places him in his cradle, already bracing himself for Saki’s words. Teba prided himself in being sharp, all the way to the edge of his beak, but if Saki wanted to, she could bring him down to the ground.

She stares out at the Flight Range, refusing to look at him. “Do you think you can do this alone?” she asks, and Teba’s gaze slides across the way, towards Harth’s house. He can see Molli curled up in her hammock, Harth busy restringing a bow, his head bent down, feathers ruffled.

Saki has been warier ever since Harth came back with grievous injuries. Teba understands her worry, and he’s torn—he can’t let Vah Medoh keep terrorizing the skies, but he loves his wife, his family.

“It’s better to try it alone than not at all,” Teba says finally. Then, “Don’t you feel sick grounded here? Did you _see_ the wounds Harth has? Someone has to—”

Saki lays a wing on his. “Teba,” she says, “I understand.”

Saki has always been fine with being grounded, so long as her family is with her. Teba would be content with that, too, but he sees everyone else in their village. He watches his people drag their wings on the ground, heads thrown back to gaze at their love, the sky. His own wings itch to soar, to train Tulin—and he can’t do that with Medoh governing the sky.

Something needs to be done. Teba opens his beak to talk, but Saki looks at him. “I understand,” she repeats quietly. “I understand more than you think. But I don’t want you to die.”

Teba snorts. “I am more than willing to die for our village, if it means bringing Medoh down.”

“You have a _son_ ,” Saki insists, drawing herself up. “He loves you.”

“I am doing this _for_ our son,” Teba says. He fights to keep his voice neutral, not leaning towards sharpness. He takes a deep breath, and exhales. “He’ll be a great warrior someday. And I can’t let Vah Medoh stop that.”

Saki’s gaze is mournful, a little reproachful. Teba sighs, and he sits on the floor, patting the space next to him, which Saki takes uncertainly.

“I love you,” he tells her, “and I’m not going to die. I’m not going to _let_ Medoh kill me. For you and Tulin.”

Saki still looks uncertain, but she nods slowly, concern lifting from her shoulders. She leans against him, closing her eyes, and Teba’s eyes drift towards his son—not the sky.

Something will be done. But for now, he watches his son sleep peacefully, unaware of the terror raging the skies. Teba falls asleep to his son’s steady breathing.

 

* * *

 

iii.

 

 _You are a chieftain_ , Riju tells herself, pacing back and forth. _So act like it_.

All around her, sand seal plushies stare at her. Buliara stands in front of the doorway, face as impassive as ever. Riju knows that Buliara doesn’t blame her; she blames herself. That makes Riju feel even worse. She keeps pacing, hands running through her hair. The first chieftain to lose the Thunder Helm—not the way she wanted to go with her rule.

 _If I was better_ , she thinks, horrible thoughts locked in her brain, _stronger, faster, bigger, I could’ve_ —

“Lady Riju,” Buliara interrupts. “You should to go to bed.”

Riju throws her hands in the air. “I _can’t_!” she shouts, all of her frustration and stress rushing out in one shout. Once the words are clawed out, she feels some kind of horror sink in.

Her mother _never_ would have yelled at Buliara.

“Forgive me,” Riju says weakly. She moves to her bed, sitting on the comforter. Buliara moves closer, until she’s standing in front of Riju.

“I understand, Lady Riju.”

“How can I…?” Riju closes her eyes. This mantle of power feels so big, and she’s so small. She’s heard the whispers, how people are worried the power is going to crack under her weight, how her fragile shoulders aren’t strong enough.

“You are going to defeat Vah Naboris,” Buliara says encouragingly, and Riju nearly laughs. She lost the Thunder Helm—how is she going to defeat the Divine Beast? She remembers how the sand stung her eyes, how thunder clapped mere feet away from her, how dark the Divine Beast’s eyes were, glowing red before the world went black.

Riju was lucky to escape with her life once. She can’t guarantee it a second time.

“We need a hero,” Riju says.

“You are a hero, Lady Riju.”

Riju almost laughs at that. A hero? No, she’s just a girl thrust into a throne that’s far too big for her. She’s barely fit for a chieftain. “We need someone bigger. Someone better.”  
  
Buliara stares at her, her face showing no emotion. Suddenly, Riju feels a prickle under her skin. She wants to be _alone_. The room feels too big for her, this room with few windows and only the wind. She feels afraid. She feels alone.

“Buliara,” she says, lifting her hand up, “please stand guard outside. I’d like to be alone.”

Buliara dips her head. “As you wish, Lady Riju.”

She closes the door on her way out. Riju flops on her bed, eyes faced towards the ceiling, and lets out a low groan.

“What am I going to do?” she asks, and then waits, as if the voices of her ancestors will come floating in with the wind. 

But there is nothing, just a little sand floating in. It catches in Riju’s fingertips—one more reminder of her failures. Riju sits up straight, stares out in the distance. She can’t _see_ the desert; a sandstorm obscures it.

Thunder crackles in the clouds of sand. Riju knows she should observe it, but she shudders and turns away instead.

 

* * *

 

iv.

 

Yunobo’s body is sore, even though he uses Daruk’s Protection. He and Bludo stump their way back to Goron City, Bludo’s back hurting him, Yunobo’s joints aching all over.

“Rudania won’t come back this time,” Bludo says confidently. He says this every time. Yunobo smiles back wearily. In truth, he doubts it; no matter how many times Yunobo fires up his ancestor’s protection, no matter how many times he launches himself on the side of the volcano, Rudania comes crawling back, hissing and spitting. Regardless of whether or not Rudania is there, the volcano shakes and spits lava.

When they make it back to the city, a horde of Gorons rush out, swarming Bludo, all asking the same questions.

“Are you okay, Boss?”

“Is your back hurting you, Boss?”

“There’s no way Rudania’s coming back! You got it this time, Boss!”

Nobody notices Yunobo slip away. Yunobo, the descendant of the Champion—but nobody cares about that. Yunobo barely has Daruk’s strength, and none of his bravery. Yunobo is just the cannon fodder, the guy who launches himself at the Beast. Other Gorons insist they could do the same, if they had Daruk’s Protection.

 _But they don’t_ , Yunobo thinks. The one thing he has in common with his ancestor is that ancient power. It’s not much, but it makes Yunobo feel better about himself—that it’s true, that he _is_ Daruk’s descendant.

The lights are off in his house, but Yunobo doesn’t make an attempt to light them. He sits down heavily, his whole body aching. He can remember how it felt to hit Rudania’s body, how the thin red barrier didn’t hide how bright Rudania’s eyes were. Everyday, he rams himself against Rudania, getting so close to the monster that he can see the creaky parts of the machine, the rasp of a shuddering beast.

If Daruk’s Protection failed, and the red barrier shattered—what would happen to him? What would Rudania do? Would he fall from the volcano, hit the ground fast? Would Rudania disappear forever, or come back, with nothing to stop it? Yunobo feels his heartbeat pick up, nervousness pricking at his body.

It takes him a moment to realize that there’s a red barrier surrounding him. Daruk's Protection comes out, sometimes, when he’s afraid or when he’s alone—and Yunobo has been alone often, ever since his parents died. He's lonely and sensitive underneath all that rock, but the Protection is also some kind of a comfort, reassuring Yunobo of his place, of his family; _I am Daruk’s descendant, and that’s not a mistake_.

Yunobo breathes easier, in and out. The moment he feels comfort, sinking under his skin, the Protection vanishes—

And he’s alone again.

 

* * *

 

v.

 

The rain lashes hard against the windows. If Impa closes her eyes, she could recall the old days, when Zelda would burst in, rainwater plastering her hair to her face. _Impa,_ she’d say, _Impa, I stood in the spring all day but nothing happened…_

Paya stares out the window, lost in thought. Then she turns to Impa. There are tired lines around her face; Impa cannot remember the last time Paya truly slept. Everyday, Paya prays and cleans the Sheikah slate, restless but quiet. She’s waiting for the hero, Impa thinks. They all are.

“Could you tell me what happened again?” Paya asks softly. The princess and the hero are a bedtime story to her, but she knows it’s no legend. Still, it’s one of Paya’s favorite stories, and Impa’s memory is remarkable. She nods, shifting around to make herself comfortable.

“Long ago, a great beast named Calamity Ganon was sealed away,” she explains, her voice brittle over the words. “But there were hints towards his return—a prophecy. So Hyrule prepared. Guardians were recovered, four Champions were chosen to pilot Divine Beasts, and—”

“G-Grandmother,” Paya interrupts hesitantly—a rarity. Her voice is quiet, and her cheeks redden. Then she says, “I don’t mean to interrupt, and I’m really sorry for it. B-But—when do you suppose the hero will rise again?”

Paya knows the whole story, knows how it ends unfinished. Impa pauses, and she listens to the rain lash against the windows. Time has bled together, but she still knows how many years it’s been since Link fell in a great sleep, since the Great Calamity happens.

“I don’t know,” Impa says quietly. She prides herself in knowing many things, but for this case, she cannot say for certain. “I can’t say for certain, child.”

Paya wrings her hands together, and for a moment there is nothing but the sound of the rain, pattering softly against the roof. Impa bows her head, and Paya looks sorry she asked it.

“I hope he comes back soon,” Paya says softly. “For all of us.”

A lump catches in Impa’s throat; she pushes it away. “Me too,” she sighs, and for a moment she gets caught in her sadness, her wish for the hero to awaken, for the world to be saved. Then she straightens. “Well, would you like me to finish the story?”

Paya nods enthusiastically, leaning forward to catch every word. Impa takes a deep breath, reaches back in her mind.

“As I was saying,” she says carefully. The world dissolves, and she closes her eyes, letting herself fall back into the story.

“Nearly a hundred years ago, there was a hero.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was very excited to write romance but wrote this instead.  
> Whoops.
> 
> I haven't gotten super far in the Divine Beast Rudania quest yet (hence why it's shorter), so most information came from poking wikis; lmk if something's off about it, thanks!


End file.
